


an excerpt from a series i havent written yet - d'Art meets Constance

by Onedoesnotneedtoknow



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Possible medical inaccuracies, Pre-Relationship, but i did reseach, but i ont think its graphic, hurt!d'Art, i dont know what that means, im new to this, little bit of a fight scene, possibly whump, umm, what do i tag??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onedoesnotneedtoknow/pseuds/Onedoesnotneedtoknow
Summary: basically what the title says, writing is my outlet and with school i probably wont have time to write an entire series yet but i had this in my mind so enjoy modern musketeers with a bit of hurt!d'Art and fluffy constagnan





	

D'Artagnan was trudging through the some of the darker streets of Paris. If anyone asked he'd tell them he was just trying to learn the 'lay of the land' as it were, but in reality, since his father died, he'd been having trouble sleeping, especially in the rain. The rain over Paris was no more than a drizzle anymore but he still didn't feel like going back to the share house he was currently crashing in. His friends would probably be appalled at the conditions he was staying in. But it was really all he could afford on the meagre stipend from his struggling farm. Stuck in his thoughts, he didn't notice the three men blocking his path until he literally ran into them.

The "sorry," was leaving his lips before he could help it until he recognised the red of the City Guards uniform. "What do you want?" He sighed, why couldn't he ever just walk in peace?

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the lowly musketeer whelp?" One of them sneered, D'Artagnan recognising him as the man he almost got sacked when he first came to Paris. The man’s name escaped him but he didn’t really care either, the purple scar stretching downwards from his ear to his jaw identifiable enough to avoid him,

"All by his lonesome, without his personal cavalry," the second, shorter, man laughed. Looking like a gremlin, the man had a snivelling hooked nose and beady black eyes, his long black plait snaking around his shoulder.

"C’mon guys, I was just going for a walk, I didn't see you, I'm sorry, can't you just let me go in peace??" He somewhat pleaded, he really couldn't be assed arguing with them right now, his nerves still frayed from his latest nightmare. He shook himself as a voice pierced his thoughts.

"Now, now, whelp." The name was a term of endearment from Porthos but from this man it was just plain insulting. The third, bigger where Porthos was in muscle, his was fat, and presumably the brawn of the group, went to put his flabby arm around d'Art's shoulder but the younger man dodged out of his way and into the second man’s chest. They circled around him, effectively trapping him in the narrow alley way. "You still haven't learnt your lesson yet."

"What lesson?" He couldn't help but ask as he gathered his courage. Porthos said he needed to wor on his hand-to-hand so why the hell not? He needed the stress relief anyway.

"Never make a fool of a Red Guard, of course!" The leader laughed. 

“That’s not hard to do.” D'Artagnan grinned at the man and dodged a punch but barely had time to react as the first mans slammed a fist into his jaw. He staggered sideways as black spots danced in front of his eyes and another blow caught his ribs. He was outnumbered. On his best day, he probably had a chance, but with three hours sleep in the last few days, he wasn’t ready for this.

He reeled backwards and lashed out at the closest man, gremlin, catching his nose and breaking it with a sickening "crack". He fought his way out of the circle and legged it. His head was spinning from the blow but he knew he had to run, find a quiet spot, ring Athos. Simple. But nothing is ever simple with him, D'Artagnan should know that by now.

He cursed his inattention as he ran through semi familiar streets and back alleys with the Guards on his heels. He made a wrong turn into a dead end, and cursed himself, ducking under fatty’s fist and slamming scarface's head into the wall before running again, somehow stumbling into a crowd at a midnight market. There were people everywhere, hustling and bustling for a decent deal. The aroma of hot food, perfume and something exotic assaulted his nose as disorientated, he pushed his way through the throng. Stumbling into a woman in wrap coat. He was taken aback by her piercing blue eyes, kind face and dark hair that fell I her eyes and framed her face in unruly curls that had fallen loose from her tight bun. He could stare at her for the rest of his life but the Guard's shouts of bloody murder brought him back to reality.

"I'll give you 50 euro to kiss me." He told her, not waiting for a response as he slammed his lips against hers. He was distracted by the tangy flavour of her lip balm as the guards ran past. "I can't believe that actually worked!" He pulled back from her, still holding her shoulders and laughed after the ignorant guards.

A punch to his stomach brought his attention to the woman in front of him. He was taken aback by the fire in her eyes and the determined set to her jaw. "What do you think I am, a working girl?" She yelled at him and he stumbled back into a pillar at the force of it. "These are my scrubs! What part of them screams prostitute to you?!" She yelled again but he was having trouble focusing as a wave of dizziness struck him. Maybe the red guards hit him harder than he thought.

"I'm sorry mademoiselle." He pushes himself forward and staggers towards her.

"Touch me again and I'll gut you like a fish!" She brandished a knife from the food stall beside her and he had no doubt shed use it on him. She was saying something again but his brain was slow to react as he looked down to find blood blossoming from his stomach. "And It’s madam-" her voice trailed off as she too looked down at the blood now flowing from his stomach. "Oh, are you okay??" She asked, slipping into cool composure, grabbing his hands and making him put pressure on the wound. "I'll call an ambulance, just hang in there okay, please don't die, my boss is going to kill me for making patients!" She babbles crouching down to put apply more pressure. When did he sit down? He wonders as he glances around with dazed fascination at the people crowding around him. He vaguely hears the woman call out for someone to call an ambulance. Her fierce blue eyes now worried and he didn’t like the expression, was the last thing he remembers before fading into the darkness.

~⚜️~

It's a monotonous beeping that calls him out of a dream he can't quite grasp, a beautiful woman just beyond his fingertips and dull ache in his side. He tries to remember what someone told him about waking up in strange situations but he can't quite remember what it was. He jumps as a hand encloses his own and his eyes snap open to find the woman of his dreams standing over him, his guardian angel in blue scrubs. Her hair fixed and back in its bun, her make up barely there but flawless, and her scrubs clean- 

It was a quiet, nervous laugh that drew his attention back to reality and to actually focus on what the beautiful woman was saying. “You’ve been out for a little over an hour, Lemay, the doctor stitched up your side, no internal damage really, you’re very lucky, the knife cut only half an inch deep, another half or so and it wouldn’t be very good, your stitches should come out in the next week or two. Ah- “her voice trails off as she reads off a clipboard. “Concussion, which will explain the headache you're no doubt feeling, the bruising around your jaw and cheek’ll go down in the next few days and you’ll be back to your handsome self. The morpine’ll wear off in the next few hours, I’m not sure while I’m telling you this, you’re not gonna remember any of it.” She smiles softly and d’Artagnan decides he likes her smile. She sits in the chair beside his bed and squeezes his hand to get his attention. “how are you?”

“’m fine,” he slurs and she laughs.

“You're anything but fine my friend, you’ll probably be off work until your stitches come out.” He groans in annoyance and she smiles fondly at him. What is Aramis going to say about his injuries? What is Athos? Athos is going to kill him. He remembers her asking him something but not what before he’s drifting off into painless oblivion again. 

~⚜️~

The beeping is still going when he wakes to the sun shining through his window, illuminating the white sterile room. His eyes drag slowly across the room, his bed is sectioned off from others by a stiff blue curtain, but he can see out of a door into a busy corridor of nurses and doctors bustling around. The clock on the wall says 10am and he feels a stab of fear in his chest, he can’t be late again, Treville will sack him. Not that he’s been commissioned but that’s beside he the point. Without thinking he gathers his arms under him in an attempt to push himself up into a sitting position but his injuries flare in an inferno of pain even his pain killers can't suppress. The machine for his heart rate spikes to beat in time with his racing heart, no doubt calling the nurses but all he can think about is his sea of pain. The all-consuming fire raging through his body with no end. He thinks he hears himself groaning but he can’t be sure. There’s a commotion around him and hands pushing him back down onto the bed.

"Hey, hey, hey, you're going to pull your stitches out you idiot. Now deep breaths Monsieur-" a stern but kind voice trails off waiting for a reply but he can only lay there as he struggles to pull himself under control but he finds himself breathing in time with the small hand gently pushing down and lifting up slightly on his chest as someone counts his breaths. The sea subsides and he finds himself able to breathe easier. A throbbing in his side slowly easing with his breaths. Someone asks if he's ready to sit up. He nods, holding tight into someone’s hand as the bed rises to support him and the nurses shift into a more comfortable position.

"Now Monsieur-" a nurse asks, and he opens his eyes to see the pretty brunette from earlier. 

“d’Artagnan.” He whispers, his vocal chords forgetting how to work. His eyes drift close as a deep breath reignites the inferno and suddenly a cup presses against his lips. The water is refreshing and he downs half of it before it’s taken off him.

“You can have the rest in a minute, can’t have you bringing it up all over our lovely Constance, can we?” the doctor shares a laugh with the nurse who must be Constance, his angel Constance. “now d’Artagnan, first or family name?” he asks as Constance gets a pen read. 

“Charles d’Artagnan.” He says quietly and she jots it down quickly. 

"Okay Charles,” the doctor begins, talking him through the basic checks of what he’s doing. Checking his ribs, reflexes, shines a light in his eyes, flaring his headache. “Everything seems to be in order, you're free of infection, none of your ribs are broken but three are severely cracked, you're going to have to take it easy for the next few weeks, you've got a slight concussion but that's cleared dramatically since you've been here but you still need to take it easy. The bruising will go down, so don't worry." He goes on with what drugs the he’s prescribed, when to take them and to take them with food, again, no strenuous activities and if his condition changes, he's to come right back. He leaves with a smile, letting Constance finish the paperwork. Boring, but necessary questions;

“Have you been here before?”

“No.” 

“Address? Contact details?”

He rattles it off.

“Next of kin?” His heart lurches.

He was expecting it but at the same time he wasn’t. 

It’d only been a few weeks and he was still struggling to come to terms with it. He wiped furiously at his eyes but to no avail, his tears were flowing freely and suddenly he was in Constance’s arms. Love, lavender and something uniquely Constance surrounds him as she hugs him tightly. She doesn’t ask or even hush him, just lets him cry into her shoulder. His ribs and side pain him but that only makes him cry harder. 

His breath catches in his throat and he can’t breathe. His pain is flaring. The world is dimming. He can’t breathe. He's back in the rain clutching desperately to his father’s body. His father’s blood staining his hands, his clothes, his soul. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. If he hadn’t- he can’t breathe. He can’t- “breathe.” He can’t. He's struggling, fighting, heaving. Just trying to- “breathe!” he hears it this time but he can’t. He can’t “breathe dammit!” The panic, the fear, the guilt, the hopelessness, the pain, the love, the admiration are swirling and he just can’t. He can’t- “breathe for fucks sake!” Lips are on his and he can’t breathe but somehow it doesn’t matter anymore. 

Her lips are soft on his and he loses himself in the rhythm of them. A warm hand is cupping his cheek and another braces itself on his thigh. It somehow feels like home, this kiss, and he grounds himself with it. The emotions fade, and all he can feel is calm, his heart no longer pounds, 

His lungs burn for breath and he pulls back, gasping desperately for air, to fill his lungs and control himself. “Breathe, Charlie.” She soothes, her hand squeezing his thigh. He focuses on that, “deep breathes, in one… two… three… out, one… two… three….” He breathes with her and slowly drifts off as the pain meds kick in again 

~⚜️~

“-better not wake him up Athos, he's had a rough time of it.” Her voice brings him back. Filtering through the fog in his head as he wakes, feeling refreshed for the first time in a while. He opens his eyes to bright lights of the hospital and the figures of his mentor and Constance by the foot of his bed. Athos’ hair was messier than usual, the tightness of his shoulders more noticeable, his scarred lips drawn tight.

“I think he already is. How are you feeling d’Artagnan?” The older man asks, his mask of cool composure in place but cracking at the seams, d’Artagnan doubted anyone else could, but he saw the tight lines of worry in the man’s eyes, the relief in the not-quite-there-smirk as d’Artagnan smiled up at him.

“I'm fine.” He smiled, causing his mentor to huff and shake his head in disbelief. It was mostly true, he would be fine. In time. When his stitches came out.

“Sure you are, and I'm the Queen of France’s best friend!” Constance laughed and d’Artagnan smiled. He liked this woman and he was glad it wasn’t just the painkillers talking. The way her whole face lit up when she laughed, the sparkle of mischief and defiance in her eye, her lips…

“I have a feeling this is going to become a habit with you.” Athos sighed, sitting in the chair beside his bed, “I don’t think Treville’s heart can handle the scare he had today when his godson didn’t show up for work.”

“He's mad at me, isn’t he?” d’Artagnan asked, looking at his hands, already knowing the answer.

“He's not as much mad as he is worried, he’d be here himself except Louis called him in.” Athos assured as he looked up in shock, Athos patted him somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder. “talk to him.”  
“You should be ready to be released now Charlie.” Constance grinned at d’Artagnan grimace.

“I hate ‘Charlie’.” He grumbled, he couldn’t help it. It was a name of a boy in a happier time, where his father stilled lived and where wondering how they were going to keep the farm afloat was his biggest worry. 

“Okay Charlie, look after Ollie and ill be back.” She grinned as Athos too, grimaced. She left the room with a laugh and d’Artagnan couldn’t help looking after her, waiting for her return, but there was something bugging him. He reluctantly dragged his eyes from where she had disappeared to the sour-faced man by his bedside.

“’Ollie’?” d’Artagnan asked, confused, had the woman gone mad?

“Constance is a dear friend of mine, married one of my cousins,” and in those words d’Artagnan’s heart sunk. His half-thought hopes dying before they could begin.

“She's-“ his voice caught on his heart in his throat. “She's married?” he couldn’t help the dejectedness of his voice.

“to my knowledge, she's trying for a divorce but that’s her own affair. He refuses to leave her.” Athos said kindly, he would never lie to him, of that he was fairly sure. “I had this talk with Aramis but I never thought I’d have to warn you off married women.” The man drawled. D’Artagnan couldn’t help grinning. 

“I bet I know how effective that talk went.”

“You’ve got no idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my little excerpt, i have every intention of writing out a series of modern musketeers, exploring how a modernised setting changes the dynamics and settings. kudos and comments are welcome :) have a lovely day/night/evening


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